


A Drop of Red Wine

by Carapatzin



Series: Of Noblemen and Wildmen [2]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Creative uses of magic, Elf With a Sailor Mouth, Elf/Human Relationship(s), Fine Dining, Fingering, Finn Lavellan, I'm shameless, Light Bondage, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Romance, Sex, Sexual Content, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Smutty, Teasing, Two Shot, judgmental waiters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-05 16:48:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,976
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4187397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Carapatzin/pseuds/Carapatzin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>(added as per request: chapter two - what inevitably happens after a long, arduous night of overtly erotic teasing. Y'all know what it is.  Wink wink.)</p><p>After coming to the realization that they keep skipping dinner reservations because fancy dining attire makes them unable to keep their hands off each other, Dorian and Finn Lavellan decide they HAVE to make at least one reservation without jumping one another and sit through an entire dinner.</p><p>Their solution to this self-wrought predicament?  Merciless sexual teasing.</p><p>(Modern Thedas AU.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sangiovese

Finn fidgeted, waiting for Dorian to get home from work.

Their dinner reservations were set for a half-hour out, he noted as he looked at the blinking blue numbers on the digital clock sitting next to the television.  As far as he knew the restaurant was only ten or so minutes away, so they had a decent amount of time to get ready—provided Dorian actually got home soon.

Then again…they had a _bad habit_ of missing reservations.

It was guilt-free enough the first time, a few months ago.  Not that it was _Finn’s_ fault Dorian looked so damn good in ironed black pants and a well-fitted button-down; Dorian had made the same case about Finn’s choice of attire.  Naturally, everything had ended up in a wrinkled pile on the floor, the sheets tangled up around them, the reservations forgotten.  The restaurant would survive without them actually showing up.

That was, however, not the last time.  Actually, Finn had lost count somewhere around fifteen.

 _Now_ he was starting to feel bad about missing all those reservations.

Sort of.  Did one ever feel _bad,_ really, after sex with _Dorian?_ Perish the thought.

Still…might as well _try_ to make this one.  Finn hopped up off the couch, wandering into the bedroom and raking his fingers through his frost-white hair.  He flipped on the light in the closet and browsed through his shirts—not that he had all that many, despite Dorian’s insisting—and eventually settled on one.

Deep royal blue, a sort of satin fabric that caught the light, with silvery embroidery around the collar—all meant to set off the glacial blue of his eyes and the vivid blue of his _vallaslin_.  The fabric’s color looked admittedly good next to the caramel tone of his skin, too.  Finn yanked off his T-shirt and pulled the button-down on, fastening every button but the top one.  Might as well show off his collarbone.  Then he tugged on a pair of dark wash jeans, his keen elven ears flicking at the sound of a key twisting in the lock of the apartment’s front door.

“Hey, you,” Finn greeted happily when he heard the door swing open.

“ _Amatus,”_ Dorian said, his boots making muffled thumps on the carpet, “you are aware that sticking all of your unwanted mail on the passenger seat of my car does not make it all ‘go away’, yes?  I found a whole mess of coupons in there this morning.  They exploded all over the floor when I stopped at a red light.”

“Dorian, why would I throw them away when I can bother you with them?” Finn teased.

“That does seem to be your mantra these days, doesn’t it?” Dorian said, rhetorically.  Finn heard him set something on the counter—probably his briefcase.

“You like it,” Finn said, stepping out of the closet and shutting off the small light.

“Only from you,” Dorian said with a light chuckle.  “When’s that reservation, again?”

“In twenty-five minutes, I’m fairly certain,” Finn called to him.  “You changing?”

“Just my shirt.”  Dorian’s voice was closer; Finn knew he was about to step into the bedroom.  “Have you—”

The older, taller mage appeared in the doorway, his eyes immediately fixing on Finn and raking up and down his body.  Unabashed, Finn leaned a hand on the wall and soaked in the attention.

“Well, well, look at you.”  Dorian shrugged off his jacket, tossing it on the bed covers.  His voice was dark, smooth as a fine wine.  “I hope you know you’re not going anywhere in _that,_ Finn.”

It was happening again, wasn’t it?

Dorian took one step closer, grabbed Finn’s waist with both hands, and yanked him forward.  Then he leaned down, pressing their mouths together with a hungry force.

Finn almost gave in.  _Almost._ His instinct told him to just start tearing clothes off until there was nothing between him and Dorian but _sweat._ Blood rushed downward, making his pants suddenly feel a little tighter than they were a minute ago; he groaned softly into Dorian’s mouth and shifted up onto his toes.

But the _reservation…_

“Wait,” Finn sputtered as he pulled his face away.  “Wait.  _Shit._ Dorian, we keep doing this.”

Dorian gave him a sarcastic look.  “Keep doing what?  Having sex?  Oh, _Maker forbid_ the atrocities of such a thing.  You’re right.  We’ve been living in vile sin and desecrating the holy ground of this apartment.”

“No, no,” Finn said, snorting and stifling a laugh, “missing dinner reservations.”

“Don’t you think they’ll survive without us?”

Finn shifted onto one hip.  “Well, I mean…it’s been _at least_ fifteen times.  Three with that same Antivan restaurant down the corner that I’m sure never takes us seriously anymore.  And I’m starting to feel—I don’t know, guilty?  Let’s just make this one.  _One._ And see how it goes.”

“And you’re _certain_ that’s what you want,” Dorian said with a calculating look, crossing his arms over his chest.

 _Don’t stare at his biceps,_ Finn thought.  _Don’t stare at his biceps.  Don’t stare at—shite._

“It is,” he said, trying to make it firm, although his voice betrayed him and wavered a little.  “And no pretending we have food poisoning and leaving halfway through, either.  We’re going to go through the _whole_ dinner.”

Dorian actually chuckled.  “For being such a deceptively adorable creature, you are _cruel.”_ His eyes roved over Finn’s torso one last time.  “But, if you insist.”  He started unbuttoning his shirt, and Finn remembered he’d said he was changing.  “I must warn you, though—I’m not going to make this easy for you.  It’s a matter of pride.”

Finn swallowed hard.

***

Finn was discovering that attempting to eat a nice dinner at an equally nice restaurant wasn’t the easiest feat while completely aroused.

For one, he had to keep wiping sticky sweat off his palms, all the while trying in vain to disguise the action from Dorian, who never really missed things like that.  He was also fairly aware that he’d accidentally bitten his own lower lip while the hostess was handing out menus, and she’d given him a bit of a perturbed look before leaving them both to their business.

Dorian kept gazing at him with a look that was equal parts amused, heavy-lidded, and _dark;_ Finn kept swallowing thickly in response.

Of course Dorian had picked _that color_ shirt _—_ that deep, mulberry red color that looked ridiculously good with his dark skin tone.  Finn had been trying not to drool ever since they’d left the apartment.

“Rather extensive menu this place has, don’t you think?” Dorian said, flipping open his own menu—hard-backed, covered in black leather, classy to the nines—and perusing through the first page.  “I’m almost impressed.  What are you thinking of drinking, out of curiosity?”

“ _You_ ,” Finn growled under his breath.

Dorian _heard._ Finn knew that much.  But he said “I’m thinking of a sangiovese myself” with a seemingly unaffected lilt to his voice.

Feeling like a blithering idiot wasn’t an uncommon sensation for Finn, but this time he’d been the _dipshit_ who insisted they keep the reservation without falling into bed instead.  Damn it all to hell.  He’d probably be cursing himself the whole dinner, considering Dorian seemed to have effectively composed himself already.

Their one salvation was that the reservations had been for a small, private veranda off the side of the restaurant.  Finn couldn’t see much outside of the veranda with the still black of night air all around them, but the veranda itself was nice, fenced in by white picketing with wisteria and jasmine climbing all over the wooden planks.  The chairs were comfortable, too—cushioned, upholstered in rich red velour.

“May as well try their sangria,” Finn said, filling the silence.  Creators, his voice sounded _husky;_ he coughed once to try and clear the throatiness away.

“Ah, sweet and fruity,” Dorian said, briefly glancing past Finn at the glass-paned door that led back into the main body of the restaurant.  “Careful not to get any fruit pieces stuck in your throat.  It _should_ go without saying…but then again, you are exceptionally magnetic to all things hazardous.”

“I’d rather have something else in my throat, thank you very much,” Finn said bluntly, opening his own menu to the second page and skimming through some of the _hors d’oeuvres._

“I might have to take you up on that later.”  Dorian’s tone was light, conversational, obviously concealing anything he didn’t want aired out in the open just yet.

Finn heard the door swing open behind him, and he propped an elbow on the table’s linen-clad surface, resting his chin in his hand.  He was about to forcefully compose himself and turn to greet the waiter, when he felt a strong hand suddenly grasp the inside of his thigh, just past his knee, and squeeze.

“Have we chosen our drinks for tonight, gentlemen?” the waiter asked, peering down at them through the thin lenses of his glasses.

Finn looked up at him, and Dorian’s concealed hand grazed higher up his thigh and squeezed even harder.

“ _Hnnh,”_ he told the waiter.

The waiter looked at Finn like the latter had gone completely off his rocker.  Luckily Dorian, whose hand was edging even further up Finn’s inner thigh, smoothly said, “I’ll have a glass of your sangiovese, and my partner here is trying your sangria.”

“Certainly,” the waiter said, memorizing the two drinks and leaving.

Finn used that opportunity to give Dorian a half-arsed huff.  “That wasn’t very nice of you.”

Dorian smirked deviously.  “I haven’t the slightest clue of what you’re speaking about.”  His thumb rubbed a circle against a twitching thigh muscle.  “I did, however, graciously recite your order after you oh-so-strangely _groaned_ at the waiter.  You could be thanking me.”

“Please,” Finn said, uncontrollably fantasizing of what else that hand could do.  “You know exactly what you did.”

“The things you accuse me of…”  The table was easily small enough for Dorian to reach his hand farther under it without really leaning that much; Finn discovered the full extent of this when the hand under the table effortlessly cupped his groin.

Heat _throbbed_ low in his belly, blood pulsing lower; Finn bit his tongue.

“Tosser,” Finn hissed.

“And so we begin with the low-class insults,” Dorian said airily, tsking his tongue.  “Whatever am I to do with you, Finn?”

“You know _exactly what to do with me,”_ Finn shot back, the last few words emphatic and staccato.

Dorian just gave him a crooked, wicked grin, then straightened up and pulled his hand away.  Immediately the loss of warmth and pressure made Finn all the more achy, and he swallowed back the whine that was bubbling in his throat.

The waiter returned with the wines at exactly the most inopportune time possible, since Finn was in the process of trying to adjust in his seat so his jeans weren’t compounding the aforementioned _achiness problem;_ just like before, the waiter regarded Finn as if he had a screw loose and shifted his attention to Dorian instead.

Finn missed whatever appetizer Dorian asked for—the blood was rushing past his ears too loudly for just a moment.

“You know, darling,” Dorian said, reaching across the table to twist a thick strand of Finn’s hair around his index finger, “have I told you tonight that we both look extraordinarily handsome?”

Finn snorted lightly, amused and flattered at the same time.  “You can’t give me a compliment without stroking your own ego?"

Finn should _not_ have used the word _stroking._ Oh gods.

“What a mad thing to say.”  Dorian winked, swirled his wine around in his glass, and took a dignified sip.

Finn really couldn’t think of any course of action other than chugging his sangria and getting himself smashed enough to barely know what was going on.  So he grabbed the glass and took a swig; immediately the flavors of soft wine, rum, and summer fruit slipped past his tongue, and he had to admit it tasted too good to be knocked down like some common vodka shot.

“What _hors d’oeuvres_ did you order, by the way?” Finn asked, setting down the glass of sangria and flipping his menu to the entrees section.

“Were you hoping for something in particular?” Dorian asked.  “Or are you going to wrinkle your nose at me because I inadvertently ordered exactly the wrong thing because I can’t _possibly_ read your mind?”

“A man with so many _talents_ as you,” Finn said with a crooked smile, eyes skimming through the seafoods, “should no doubt be able to read minds as well.”

“Mmm, true.  I’ll have to work on that.”  Dorian’s gaze was on him, Finn knew, burning him up all over.  “But you didn’t answer my question, you know.”

Finn raised his head and looked him dead in the eye.  “ _Sausage.”_

Dorian lifted an eyebrow, his eyes darkening all the more.  Yet he said, with a perfectly composed deadpan, “isn’t that rather unconventional?”

Finn chuckled.  “I have unconventional tastes.”

“I’m seeing that.”

By the time the waiter had brought out the platter of _hors d’oeuvres—_ a platter of assorted cut cheeses—and taken their orders for entrees—Mythal’s butt, Finn barely even _remembered_ what he ordered other than that it was probably steak—Finn had decided Dorian wasn’t flustered enough.  Experimentally, he grasped the second button on his shirt while Dorian was looking down at his plate, working the button free with minimal effort.

Dorian glanced up, his gaze slipping down to the skin Finn had bared, and his eyes narrowed a little.  “Fighting back, are we?  You _know_ I love your collarbone.”

Finn knew Dorian loved his pectoral muscles as well, but he couldn’t exactly undo that many more buttons without being kicked out for public indecency.  Which was silly—men should be able to walk around shirtless wherever they wanted, he felt—but he didn’t make the rules.  He was already getting away with enough by walking around barefoot.

“I’m not going down without a scuffle,” Finn teased, popping a piece of smoked gouda in his mouth.

Dorian seemed pleased by that.  “Good.”

Finn lost himself in vivid, breathy fantasizing for a moment—memories and feelings of Dorian’s strong, muscled body pressed flush on top of him, the hardness of him _inside_ him, hips rocking and thrusting—and he felt sweat bead at the nape of his neck.  No, no, no; he wasn’t going to make it through dinner if he kept thinking of that.

At some point, the highly judgmental waiter brought out the entrees.  Finn was given the pleasant yet expensive surprise that he’d ordered their filet mignon.

“You look rather flushed, _amatus,”_ Dorian mentioned, overtly eyeing Finn up at down, at least what he could probably see over the table.  “Something on your mind?”

Finn purposely lowered his eyelids and held Dorian’s grey-eyed gaze.  “Maybe I’m imagining things.”

Dorian smirked wolfishly and took another sip of wine.

Finn considered “accidentally” dribbling some sangria down his neck and chest, but Dorian would probably just call it unnecessarily unsanitary and make an offhand remark about never getting the stain out of the shirt; that was a no-go.  Instead he slowly took his knife and fork to the filet mignon and cut it into more bite-sized pieces, thinking as he did so.

He speared a piece on his fork, watching juices dribble out of the meat and run onto the smooth porcelain white of the plate; that erotically-turned imagery alone was enough to make heat flame under his skin.

“ _Mmm_ ,” he said, lifting the piece of steak and biting his lower lip.  “I want you inside me…”

Dorian growled under his breath, his fork streaking against his plate with a sharp metallic noise.

“Oh, don’t you worry,” Finn teased, “I was talking to the _steak.._.”

He popped the piece into his mouth with a feral grin, savoring the spiced flavors of it as he chewed and swallowed.  His chest heaved with a deep breath through his nose, and he made a hum of approval.

“Enjoying yourself over there?” Dorian asked, his eyes briefly flickering down to Finn’s chest.

“Not as much as I _could_ be,” Finn said.

“Have you tried a sangiovese before?”  Dorian grinned crookedly and dipped an index finger in his wine; a blood red drop of it beaded off his finger and plinked back into the glass.  “Smooth…strong… Seems like something you’d enjoy, doesn’t it?”

Finn uncontrollably snatched Dorian’s hand and brought it closer, slipping his finger into his mouth.

Now _this_ was something he knew how to do.  He closed his eyes and sucked on Dorian’s finger, swirling his tongue around it to catch the last drops of wine, the oaken cherry flavors lingering on his tongue.  Dorian curled his finger a little in Finn’s mouth, and Finn lightly grazed his knuckle with his teeth.  Then he grasped Dorian’s wrist and _slowly_ pulled the finger out of his mouth, opening his eyes.

Dorian’s expression was _carnal_ as he almost reluctantly pulled his hand away _._ “I swear to the Maker, Finn, I am two seconds away from bending you over this table.”

There went the subtlety.  A shudder of anticipation barreled down Finn’s spine.

“Now, now,” he said instead, barely restraining himself, “that would be _uncouth.”_

“I’m almost past the point of caring.”

Oh gods.  Finn almost considered giving in and letting them fuck each other senseless in the nearest bathroom, but he still had unsavory memories of the last time that happened.  Dorian had, afterwards, pointed out that a woman and her toddler wouldn’t have walked in on them if Finn hadn’t picked the _women’s_ bathroom, but Finn had tried to point out that it was the closest one available and he’d been in too much of a feverish rush to look at the sign.

“We made a _deal,_ though,” Finn insisted, his resolution wavering.  “We can break every single reservation after this one, I promise.”

Dorian dramatically rolled his eyes.  “Yes, yes, pacts and all that.  Fine.”  He speared a piece of his own steak and lifted it off the plate.  “If I’m going to be coerced into enjoying my dinner before I get to _you,_ than I’m going to _savor each bite_.”  He punctuated the last words in an almost staccato rhythm. 

Well…Finn probably deserved that.

He roved his eyes along the lines of Dorian’s shoulders.  “And after that?”

Dorian’s answering grin was beyond devious.  “You’ll see.”


	2. Romanza

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, this took a turn for the sappy. And the - nah, I'll just let you read. ;) Hope you enjoy!

Why Dorian _always_ insisted on pouring wine when they got home, Finn would never know.

It wasn’t the easiest thing, trying to get in a good sitting position while completely (and almost painfully) hard.  Finn shifted, crossing his legs beneath him, stifling a whimper at the rubbing of stiff denim against his…well…stiff something else. 

His preference would’ve been to barely shut the door before tearing the fancy clothing off each other. 

Dorian, though, tended to be a little less animalistic than Finn about these things.

_Most_ of the time.

“Comfortable?” Dorian asked, slipping back into the bedroom with two glasses full of deep red wine held sophisticatedly by the stems in his hands.  “You look like you’ve made yourself right at home.” He must’ve undone some of the buttons on his dark burgundy button-down when he was in the kitchen;Finn swallowed hard, letting his eyes fix on the exposed skin of Dorian’s chest, deeply tanned, slightly shimmery with just a faint sheen of sweat.

“I _am_ home, doofus,” Finn said, accepting the glass of wine from Dorian.  All he could tell was that it was a red—he was hopelessly bad at picking out subtle flavors in every kind of alcohol.  “I happen to live here.”

“Do you?  Sweet Maker, why has nobody _told_ me?”  Dorian sat on the side of the bed, one leg off the edge.  “Is that why every ounce of food goes missing a day after I buy it?”

“Could be.”  Finn winked and took a sip of wine.  Fruity, thick; he couldn’t quite pin the name down.

“Romanza,” Dorian filled in.  “I shipped in a case of it from Antiva.”

Finn might’ve asked him why he—a high-class Altus mage—tolerated buying anything from Antiva, but his thoughts were preoccupied by watching Dorian sip the wine, watching his Adam’s apple jump with each swallow, the way the rim of the crystalline-clear glass pressed against his lips.

And Finn’s head was swimming with visions in the crisp crackle of a second, making his vision fog as he imagined that mouth peppering his body with kisses and bites and bringing him to a desperate sweat.  His skin was already breaking into excited goosebumps as he sat there just _watching_ Dorian drink wine, a shiver crawling its hot, electric way down his spine and straight for his groin.

“But,” Dorian said, setting his half-empty glass on a nightstand and turning predatory grey eyes on Finn, “I think I’ll finish that later.  _First…_ there’s the matter of repaying you for torturing me with  _that.”_

“For what?”  Finn played dumb.

Dorian smirked—it was such a knowing smirk that he must’ve caught how turned on Finn was, gods be damned—and leaned on a hand; the action brought his face closer to Finn’s.  The latter flicked his long, pointed ears downward in a subtle gesture of submission, but didn’t pull away.

“For looking like you do,” Dorian said, tracing the index finger and thumb of his free hand around the sharp point of Finn’s ear, “and making me sit through a _two-hour dinner_.”

It had dragged on, hadn’t it?  Not that Finn had been keeping track of the time very well out on the restaurant’s veranda.

“Oops?” Finn said.

“Oh, no no no.”  Dorian clicked his tongue and curled the index finger under Finn’s chin, tilting his head up a bit.  “You’re not going to get away with just an _oops.”_

“What if I looked coy while I said it?” Finn tried.

He knew that both of them knew he was completely uncommitted to the idea of getting out of punishment.  The subject had come up between him and Dorian a few months back—not that he remembered _how_   it had been breached—but Dorian had since been well aware of Finn’s rather particular desire to be dominated in bed.

Dorian had been hesitant at first; he’d said once that he didn’t like exposing Finn to the kind of things elven slaves in Tevinter had to deal with, when they were _actually_ being dominated and _actually_ had no say.  But it was a display of trust, Finn had managed to tell him; there was a sort of wild thrill in knowing implicitly that the taller, older, Tevene mage would never once dream of taking advantage of him.

A complicated thing, but it made sense in Finn’s head.

Dorian snorted in response to Finn’s obviously fake attempt at evasion.  “You could try,” he said, cupping Finn’s throat with a smooth hand—a nobleman’s hand—and bumping the pad of his thumb over his Adam’s apple, “but where’s the fun in that?”

Indeed, where was the fun in giving Dorian a half-arsed “sorry” and drifting off to sleep?  Finn was too deep into his own lightheaded surges of desire, strung along like a marionette by the aching coil of heat in his groin.

“But I’m being much too nice to you, aren’t I?”  Dorian’s tone was dark, wicked, as he reached forward for Finn’s shoulders, pushing him down and twisting him at the same time.  Finn helped out on his end, settling on his stomach, his nails digging excitedly into the bedcovers beneath him out of reflex.  “After all, you’re the one who didn’t let us skip that reservation.  Tsk, tsk.”

“I have no regrets,” Finn declared, half muffled by the covers his cheek was resting on.

“Of course you don’t.”  Dorian’s warm hands skimmed down Finn’s sides, feeling the lines of his waist, the lean map of muscles just beneath his shirt and skin.  He slipped his fingers under the silken fabric of Finn’s shirt, skimming them affectionately over the exposed skin.  A moment later he pressed a soft kiss to the small of Finn’s back; Finn’s hips twitched upwards.

“Mmm,” Finn said, turning his head a little more, “that doesn’t feel like punishment, Dorian.”

Dorian chuckled, but it was rough, low, carrying none of the casual tone it so often did.  “The things you ask of me, _amatus.”_ His lips brushed Finn’s back as he spoke; Finn tried not to squirm.

Then his hands were reaching under Finn’s hips, finding the button and zipper on his jeans and working both loose.  No matter how he spoke of “paying Finn back” for the stunt with the dinner reservations, his hands were always careful; even when hooking his fingers under the hem of Finn’s jeans and yanking them off, he still took care to not scratch Finn’s skin or hurt him.  Even as Dorian returned to kissing his lower back, biting a couple spots, his teeth never closed down enough to hurt.

It was, to Finn, strangely intoxicating to be handled like something precious and something utterly desirable at the same time.

Still, that didn’t stop Dorian from sliding a hand up to grip Finn’s rear while he nipped him just under his ribs.  He kissed a wet line up his spine, sliding the shirt up with his free hand.  Finn tried to muffle a soft groan and failed miserably, his hips twitching involuntarily upwards against Dorian’s hand. 

When Dorian’s mouth reached just below his shoulder blades, he flattened the hand on Finn’s rear.  It was a sort of inquisitive hesitation that Finn knew well; he hitched his breath and nodded just once.

Dorian drew the hand back and spanked him.

Finn made a noise that was somewhat of a cross between a moan and a grunt, pressing his face into the covers beneath him, a jolt of red-hot pleasure snapping through his body like a lightning bolt. The smack hadn’t been nearly hard enough to hurt above a light sting—and Finn could’ve happily taken much harder—but it was enough to make him squirm where he lay and suck his lower lip between his teeth.

“Sweet Maker, the _noises_ you make,” Dorian said roughly, immediately bringing his hands around Finn’s torso to start working the buttons on his shirt free.  The words were murmured between Finn’s shoulder blades, punctuated by a firm, hot kiss.

“There’s more where that came from…” Finn told him, his voice infinitely breathier than he’d been intending.

“Is that so?” Dorian grunted against Finn’s spine, then reached around and all but yanked the shirt off him from behind.  He must have been really losing control; if Finn knew anything, it was that Dorian cared a great deal about attire and normally wouldn’t have hurled Finn’s shirt in a deep blue and silvery wad against the bedroom door.  “Turn over, Finn.  I want to see your face.”

“But I don’t think I’ve learned my lesson…” Finn purred, sucking his lower lip between his teeth.

“Oh?  You want another one?”  Dorian flattened his palm on the curve of Finn’s ass, squeezing a little, his grip just firm enough so Finn could feel it but not rough enough to be _good._ Finn bit back a wanton whine as Dorian pulled his hand away at a torturously slow speed.  “Is someone a glutton for punishment today?” 

Every day of the year, really.

“Fucking _hit_ me,” Finn growled under his breath.

Dorian chuckled low in his throat.  “I do adore when you sound so desperate.”

He spanked Finn a second time, and Finn let out a completely unchecked groan.

Dorian immediately gripped Finn around the middle and flipped him over, then knelt and manually hooked Finn’s legs around him.  Finn decided to be cheeky and squeeze his waist with his thighs as he was trying to get his shirt off, to which Dorian rolled his eyes and tugged harder, discarding the button-down in a pile of mulberry fabric on the floor.

Finn never got enough of seeing Dorian shirtless.  His smooth, dusky skin, the planes of hard muscle underneath, the wolfish smirk he always wore when he knew he was being admired.  Dorian  _knew_ exactly how beyond gorgeous he was, knew how senseless he could make Finn with just a look.

“You’re drooling, darling,” Dorian said, the smirk widening.  He caressed his hands down Finn’s bare legs, finding his inner thighs and rubbing methodical circles with his thumbs.

Was he actually?  Finn swiped the back of his hand over his mouth, then shot Dorian an ‘ _I know_ _you’re fucking with me’_ look when there was nothing there.

“Arse,” Finn said.

“Again with the insults.”  Dorian snickered.  He reached over into the nightstand and grabbed a vial—Finn never knew why he didn’t just use a grease spell for the oil he knew to be inside, but he figured Dorian was too well-bred to use a hasty, crude spell in this kind of situation.  Not to mention the oil he used always smelled vaguely of something nice—musk?  sandalwood?—and was probably vastly sexier than just _grease._

“Hmm…” Dorian continued, “since I think I’ve gotten my point across about making us meet that reservation, you know what else I’m going to do to you?”

“Tease me relentlessly?” Finn guessed, his lids heavy, blood throbbing hard in his groin and making his cock twitch.

“Well, since you _suggested_ it.”  Dorian grinned, grasping the vial’s cork between his teeth and pulling it free with a sharp _pop._ Finn thrust his hand out to grab the vial, but Dorian lifted it just beyond his reach and pulled the cork out of his mouth.  “Ah, ah, ah.  Who said you could have that?”

“Me?” Finn protested, swiping for it with his fingers.  When that failed, he groped around for the front of Dorian’s pants instead and began hurriedly undoing the button and zipper. 

“Don’t you remember how teasing works, _amatus?”_ Dorian asked.  “I think you’re due for a refresher course.  A long, involved, detailed refresher course.”

“Don’t you start with that,” Finn said, hastily tugging Dorian’s pants down his hips.  “I had to sit through the entire car ride _and_ wait while you poured wine.  If I’d had my way, you would have _actually_ bent me over that table.”

Creators, he didn’t think he’d ever seen Dorian so smug, sitting there with the vial dangling from two fingers as if he was taunting Finn with it.  And that observation was quite the feat, because Dorian  _always_ looked impossibly smug.

“It looked too rickety at second glance,” said Dorian.

His eyes were heavy-lidded, full of vivid and primal lust, and yet it seemed he was currently letting Finn do most of the metaphorical legwork.  No matter; Finn was perfectly happy pulling things off of him.

“Oh?”  Finn raised an eyebrow, yanking Dorian’s pants past his rear and down his thighs.  Too impatient to get them off all the way, he wrapped his fingers around Dorian’s length and squeezed a little, didn’t move his hand up and down yet.  He was rewarded with a sharp intake of breath, and he gave a smug grin of his own.  “We’re not _that_ heavy.”

“Heavier than we appear, I should think, especially since you stuffed yourself full of filet mignon,” Dorian said, reaching down with one hand to help tug his pants down his thighs.

“You could have stuffed me full of cock instead,” Finn said bluntly, snatching the vial from Dorian’s fingers with his free hand.  His other was currently—happily—occupied; the aforementioned member was hot and stiff in his grasp.  He only let go to cup his hand and spill oil into it, then messily spread it on him.

“Finn, if you ever clean up that blunt mouth of yours, I will grievously mourn the loss.”  Dorian growled softly and braced his hands on each of Finn’s sides, leaning down to kiss him. 

Finn eagerly parted his lips, letting him push his tongue inside, and lifted his neck to press their mouths more forcefully together.  A groan vibrated in his chest, cutting off into what could’ve been a whine when Dorian pulled his face away.

“Since I appear to be in good standings right now,” Finn said, “can I, uh, make a request?”

“Silly elf.”  Dorian’s eyes softened.  “You never have to ask that.”

Because Dorian, despite putting up sarcastic walls and appearances of being emotionally detached, was secretly too devoted to tell Finn he couldn’t have what he wanted.  Because no matter how much he talked it up and how reckless in bed he said he was and had been, his hands always had an undercurrent of tenderness on Finn’s skin.  Because the Altus mage was a big softie under all that bravado. 

It left Finn breathless, sometimes, that _he_ was the one Dorian wanted.  That he could trust him so much.  That he could be at his most vulnerable and always know he was safe in Dorian’s arms.

“Well, _now_ I’m going to request…”  Finn reached his free hand blindly for the nightstand drawer, groping around for the three strips of silken red fabric he knew were in there.  Triumphant, he held them up in front of Dorian’s face, continuing to massage oil along his shaft with his other hand.  “…this.”

“Oh, aren’t you naughty.”  A wicked grin spread across Dorian’s face as he knowingly took Finn’s hand, the one holding the strips, and pulled it above his head.  He plucked the strips from his fingers and looped one strip around Finn’s wrist and a slat on the headboard, slipping a finger between the silk and skin to make sure it wasn’t too tight and that it wouldn’t hurt or cut off circulation.  Finn let his other hand be eased away, be lifted above his head and tied to another slat, the process repeated, the elf securely restrained to the headboard.

“There’s one more,” Finn reminded him, his voice catching hopefully.

“I haven’t forgotten.”  Dorian draped the silken tie over Finn’s eyes, plopping a kiss on his nose as he reached around and tied the ends behind Finn’s head, over tight waves of frost-white hair.

If Finn wasn’t so accustomed to it, he might’ve been amused by how quickly Dorian wavered from rough and sexy to loving and soft, back and forth, like a ship riding each swell of a wave and each shallow trough between.  But that was how he’d always been—a façade of vanity and sarcasm, little peeks of unbridled tenderness in between.

_I trust you,_ Finn said with his mind and his restrained arms and his covered eyes.  Elves relied so heavily on their sharp eyesight and their superb night vision that willingly being blinded was almost unheard of, at least among the Dalish.  _I trust you with everything I have.  And I love that._

Hands spread over his chest, fingers tripping one by one over his nipples.  Finn’s back arched and jerked upwards.

“Finn,” Dorian said, gruffness edging his voice, “you are the most impossibly tempting creature I have ever seen.”  He kissed down Finn’s chest and stomach, along a blue _vallaslin_ line Finn knew trailed downwards.  “You know that?”

“Maybe if you keep telling me…” Finn said, knowing both of them were aware of his fishing for compliments.

Blinded as he was, Finn couldn’t anticipate anything Dorian was doing, and that thrilled him more than he thought physically possible, making his length swell even harder and drip lightly on his lower belly.  He was already groaning and straining against the bonds as Dorian ran his fingers over Finn’s abs, over the scars that both of them knew had been caused by a bear attack some time ago.

Then he withdrew his hands from Finn’s stomach, making Finn huff with the loss of them.

“You don’t know the _half_ of what you do to me,” Dorian said.  There was oil on his hands, slippery and warm, when he smoothed them over Finn’s stomach and the sides of his haunches.  “Your skin looks so lovely slick with oil like this, don’t you know?  Such an exquisite golden tan you have.”

Dorian was buttering him up with _words,_ too, and it was enough to make Finn’s breath shudder, the muscles on his stomach jumping as Dorian’s fingers brushed over them.

“I’ve met my share of desire demons, _amatus,”_ Dorian said, kneading Finn’s ass with the pads of his fingers, “and I haven’t met one half as exotic as you.”

Damn him for being so fucking good at seducing; Finn was, somehow, twice as painfully hard as he’d been at the restaurant.

Then again, he had fished for compliments. 

And he wouldn’t trade any of it for the world.  Never.

“You’re a…t-tease,” he sputtered.

“Am I?”  Even Dorian’s voice managed to overflow with pomposity.  “Silly elf.”

A well-oiled finger swirled around Finn’s entrance and eased inside him; Finn sucked in a breath and lifted his hips an inch or two, making the angle easier.  The finger pushed deeper inside, curling and massaging his prostate; Finn moaned and squirmed. 

He worked the finger deep in up to the knuckle, then far out enough that just the first joint was inside—in and out, in and out, again and again, rubbing his prostate with every thrust of his hand.  Finn turned his head to the side, struggling to control his breathing and failing spectacularly.

“Please…”  He was already reduced to begging, it seemed.  “You…I want _you…_ ”

“All in good time,” Dorian teased, curling his finger again.  Finn’s hips jerked uncontrollably.

“I don’t…like…that sentence…” he protested.

“Then perhaps someone won’t make any more dinner reservations?” Dorian said, his voice low and wanting as he pushed a second finger inside him.  Finn’s muscles spasmed and tightened with anticipation, making Dorian work him back open with both fingers as he pressed hard kisses to his thighs.

“ _Dorian,”_ Finn rasped.

“Yes?”  There was an aroused edge under the usual Tevene satin of his voice.

“ _Fuck.  Me.”_

“I’m getting there.”  Dorian chuckled, scraping his teeth against the inside of Finn’s left thigh. “Sweet Maker, you should see yourself like this.  _Mmm._ ”

“Now you’re just being mean,” Finn whined.

“Maybe I love the view,” Dorian purred against Finn’s thigh.  His fingers injected a gentle jolt of electricity inside him—carefully controlled, because Dorian was a damn good mage and because he’d never hurt him—and Finn let out a garbled groan.  “All sweaty, senseless, desperate…”

“About to strangle you…” Finn added to the list, his wrists yanking against the silken cords.

“Now, now, how might you manage that?”  Dorian kissed farther up his thigh, curling and uncurling the two fingers inside him.

“If I…make you untie me…” Finn managed.

The kisses stopped for a moment, the fingers slowed.  “Is that what you want?” 

“No,” Finn blurted out.  “No, gods almighty, bloody horny halla, _no.”_

“Your creative curse words never fail to amuse me.”  The fingers flexed again, sending another jolt of electricity through his insides, and Finn uncontrollably tightened around the fingers, biting down on his own tongue nearly hard enough to draw blood.  “Spoken in that Starkhaven accent of yours…even  _your_ vulgar tongue is a pleasure to listen to.”

“You love my…sailor mouth…” Finn choked out.

“Haven’t I been saying as much?” Dorian said.  “Along with everything else about you.”  He slowly, torturously withdrew his fingers, and Finn hissed his displeasure.

Sweaty, senseless, and desperate were good descriptions for him at the moment.  He wanted to rip out of the bindings, curl every limb around Dorian’s muscled body and cling tightly to him as he rode out every thrust.  But that was the point of the restraints—keeping him bound there, subjected to Dorian’s whims, completely and wonderfully at the other mage’s mercy.

"Something you want from me?”  Dorian’s lips brushed against Finn’s cock as he spoke; Finn gasped. “You’re allowed to tell me, you know.  Anything at all.”

But Finn was, by his very nature, a silly man.  “Sandalwood scented incense…a coconut oil massage…and sexually charged smooth jazz.”

His clan’s Keeper, despite praising his elementalist magic to no end, had always thought Finn was much too vivacious and strange for his own good.  Dorian, though, seemed to enjoy his quintessentially-not-Dalish personality, if their current situation was any indication.

The other mage snorted, nuzzling his nose just inward of Finn’s hip, then chuckled when Finn’s breath hitched.  “I’d be surprised if you actually wanted me to leave you tied up here and drive down to the store to buy those.”

“What,” Finn said, shakily, “you don’t just…stash them?”

“Certainly not.”  Dorian hummed a laugh.  “Wouldn’t you have noticed them by now?”

“No…” Finn said.  “What was it you called me…?”

“A chronically oblivious ignoramus, if I recall.  Said with utmost affection, of course, despite it being rather true.”  Dorian’s hands, still slick with oil, skimmed Finn’s thighs again, sliding under the curves of his knees and hauling his legs tighter around his waist.  Finn hooked his ankles together in compliance.  “Tell me what you want, _amatus._ As I said before, I can’t read your mind.  Regrettably.  I’ll wager it’s interesting in there.”

So he was going to make him spell it out.  Damned bloody dining reservation and damned bloody long teasing session.  Finn snapped his teeth together like a feral animal.

“Chop, chop,” Dorian urged him, making a clicking noise with his tongue.

Finn had a lot of things he wanted at the moment—to be penetrated and fucked senseless, to be filled to the brim with salty whiteness until it seeped out of him, to throw his head back and scream Dorian’s name until people in the apartment complex thought he was being brutally murdered and called the police.  But he risked sounding overly explicit if he said any of those, so he managed a last plaintive “ _fuck me…”_ instead. 

Dorian didn’t respond with words; he lined them up instead, checking with his hand to make sure the angle was correct, then eased himself into Finn, his girth spreading open the tight ring of muscle. 

He was hard enough that Finn could feel the slightest throb of his pulse, and that alone was enough to make heat flash feverishly through his veins, make him bite down hard on his lower lip.

Finn squeezed his knees tight, his thighs closing around Dorian’s waist as well, hips jerking. 

Dorian rubbed a smooth hand over his stomach, waiting for just a moment, then braced his hands on Finn’s hipbones with a firm grip and rolled his pelvis against him.

He picked up a slow and steady rhythm at first, holding Finn’s hips to pull him snugly into each thrust. Finn’s pointed ears flickered downward each time and his breath picked up, hissing through his teeth.

“You always feel _so good…”_ Dorian’s hips snapped hard for two thrusts, and Finn moaned, pulling against the bindings with both arms.

He wasn’t particularly skilled at rocking his hips with any sort of rhythm—which was laughable, because he’d been far from a virgin when he’d met Dorian—so he let Dorian handle the pacing.  Dorian was infinitely more experienced with sex, after all, as most Tevinter nobles probably were.

His fingers spread, gripping the curves of Finn’s ass as he pulled him tighter into each thrust.  Finn was reduced to a babbling mess within minutes, incapable of forming any sorts of phrases.

“A-a-a-aahh—” he half stammered, half groaned, his mouth open to suck in deeper, quicker, raspier breaths.  “ _Dorian…”_

“I’ve got you,” Dorian promised in a breathy voice, never breaking his rhythm, yanking Finn’s hips against his with each snap.

It was three simple words and a thousand meanings.  _I’m here.  I’ll never stop holding you like_ _you’re precious to me.  We’re getting there together._ And farther below the surface, hidden beneath a layer akin to shifting sand: _I love you._

Lips met his, and Finn breathed in the soft scents of campfire smoke and Tevene spices that encircled Dorian like a cloak.  Finn strained his head up to mash their mouths together.  Their kissing was more uncoordinated and sloppy than usual, with the jerking of their bodies in time with each thrust, but Finn couldn’t find it within himself to care.  He just wanted to taste Dorian’s mouth, breathe him in like he was breathing life itself, be as close as physically possible to the man he loved so desperately.

Then Dorian pulled his face away, his hips shuddering, and Finn shuddered with him.

It wouldn’t be long now.  Finn had always had a problem with lacking endurance—something he’d never been shamed for, thank the creators—and being with _Dorian_ only compounded the ‘ _oh dear_ _gods I’m about to burst already’_ problem.

As if sensing he was close, Dorian freed a hand from Finn’s haunches and reached it between them, wrapping it around Finn’s length to stroke him to completion.

A few more rough rocks of Dorian’s hips and pumps of his hand had Finn tapping his toes against the side of his thigh.  It was a habit he’d picked up years back—signaling that he was near release with a couple taps—but with his hands bound as they were, he had to use his feet instead.

Dorian, somehow, always understood the hasty signal.  He just did.

Finn’s orgasms were always a loud thing, full of shaking and throaty cries and back arching.  This one was no different, and it had him fluttering his eyes under the blindfold and rolling them back into his head as he spent the majority of his climax on himself.  His body squeezed tight, a single long spasm and twist of muscle, and Dorian reached it just after him, heat spilling into Finn from what felt like deep within.

“I…I _love_ you… _ma'arlath_..."Finn rasped, _groaned,_ as the shivering aftershocks of orgasm rolled through him one after the other.

A quivering breath from Dorian and a tender kiss on the mouth was his answer.

For several minutes after he lay there, panting, utterly out of breath and unconcerned about getting himself out of the bindings.  It was Dorian who finally propped himself up on an arm—from what it felt like—and skillfully undid the knot at the back of Finn’s head, slipping the silk free of his eyes.

The room was dim, but Finn still had to blink for a few seconds to adjust.  Then he looked down at himself, sweaty and spattered, and said, “Elgar’nan’s ball sac…we need a shower.”

“All in good time…” Dorian said between heavy breaths, untying Finn’s wrists one by one.  Then he reached under his nightstand for a towel—because of course he always kept towels by the bed—and plopped it on Finn’s stomach, finally easing out of him.

“Oh, I forgot…”  Finn paused wiping himself off and reached up, tweaking an upturned end of Dorian’s moustache with a finger and thumb.  “I love you too, Dorian’s facial hair.”

Dorian snorted, bending to press a kiss to Finn’s chest.  “Every time I think you’ve finally gone normal on me, you do something like that.”

“You don’t want normal,” Finn said, chuckling.

“True.”  Dorian waited his turn for the towel, taking it only when Finn handed it to him.  “How does a hot shower sound?  The last one was too icy.”

Finn liked icy showers, being a frost mage, but he’d compromise.  “Hot it is.”  He yawned, relaxed and nearly limp.  “So…if I make reservations for tomorrow night…?”

Dorian just rolled his eyes. “We will most assuredly miss them.”

As if Finn needed any more incentive to skip the next hundred reservations.  In fact, after this...he wasn’t sure they’d fulfill one ever again.


End file.
